


song of songs

by havisham



Category: Macbeth - Shakespeare
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Married Couple, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 11:36:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Thy lips are like a thread of scarlet, and thy speech is comely..."</i>
</p><p> </p><p>Written for Porn Battle XIV, with the prompts: cunnilingus, armor, breasts, red, thighs, bad, possession.</p>
            </blockquote>





	song of songs

Her lord and master arrives at the door and has to be shown in by a confused guard who has never seen him before. Macbeth is all bustle and the cold leaches off his body like it’s been cast in iron. She looks up from her papers and allows herself a small smile, a red curling of her lips. He shares it, briefly, and dismisses the guards and her women. 

They are alone, and together as they should be. 

His face is already flushed, and matches his hair. He has a fair and open face, every emotion flits over the surface like the scudding of clouds over a blue summer sky. Today, she can see triumph and shame, greed and happiness, roiling around in his explosive frame. 

Duncan is dead and Macbeth has been crowned king. Without him needing to tell her, she knows Banquo is dead too, the last of his old ties are cut. Only Malcolm and Macduff are unaccounted for; but she is confident in her lord, he will find the traitors soon and bring them to justice. 

Just the taste of blood is enough for some, but for others it will never be enough. Macbeth is of the latter group. He is speaking to her, low and urgent words, of things that need doing. He has Macduff’s wife and child. What should he do with them? 

With a sigh, she gets up from her chair and comes to him. Her hand is cool against his hot cheek. 

“Darling,” she says, “let’s get you out of this armor. Then we’ll talk.” 

They don’t talk, however, when she pulls him from his cold and heavy armor, strips him quite bare, and brings him, shivering, to the fire. There is blood underneath his fingernails, blood that cannot be scrubbed away. She turns them in her own hands and marvels at how well they fit together, two parts of a whole. 

“You only do what you must,” she says, kissing the palms of his hands. 

* 

He says that he is happiest between her legs, and perhaps that’s true. 

His fingers map out the white curve of her belly, and left their indents on her thighs. Her silk dress has been pushed up and now bunches around her waist, the smooth material brushing against her aching nipples. She tightens around him, the thrusts of his tongue sending shocks all throughout her body. Her toes curl against the material of her hose, and she shakes, not able to to hold in the moans that bubble up in her throat. 

There is a fresh-feeling wetness in her sex, slick against Macbeth’s mouth, his sharp nose rubbing against her curls. Her fingers grip into his hair, her nails scraping against his scalp. She draws blood, and he comes up for air and watches her as she licks it off her fingers. There is only a thin edge of blue in the iris of his eyes, his pupils have been blown wide. He jerks her towards him, until until his fingers are buried inside of her cunt, rubbing against her clit until she comes again and slides off her chair and pressed kisses on his face, on his lips, tasting herself in his mouth. 

His cock is heavy and insistent against her thigh, but they ignore it. 

Today is for her pleasure, not his. 

“Kill them,” she says, her voice hoarse and sweet. He looks at her, palms her breasts through the material of her dress. She moans and rubs against him. His hands tangle through her long dark hair, unmaking her neat braids. 

His voice is a hot whisper in her ear. “And Macduff...?” 

“He abandoned them first,” she says, writhing against him as he circles his arms against her waist. “You do not leave lambs for the wolves and weep when they are slaughtered.” 

“Beautiful,” he says, kissing her throat, “my little wolf.” 

Her lips scrape against his stubbled chin, she bites at his earlobe. “Certainly, my little shepherd.”


End file.
